


A Catalyst

by shelleysprometheus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Still Wears A Tight Shirt, Case Fic, First Kiss, John Doesn't Like the Cattle, M/M, POV John Watson, Sherlock Wears Criminally Unfashionable Shoes, The Cattle Don't Like John, australian outback
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 20:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleysprometheus/pseuds/shelleysprometheus
Summary: Blood seemed fitting I thought as my gaze was draw once more to the landscape beyond us, beyond the river bed, past the walls of the canyon and out into the endless desert of blood red soil that seemed to stretch forever. A few shrubs, a few trees, but little else to mark the distance between us and the horizon. This was indeed a strange place. A place where in all rights, nothing should grow, but still life persisted. Not a lot, but enough to prove that it wasn’t done yet, that it wasn’t over.





	A Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [88thParallel (CanadaHolm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/gifts).



> Inspired by the words of the wonderful @88th Parallel: “[in fanfic] we can see a thousand first kisses, a thousand first times, we can see them be tender and soft and fall in love slowly, or get together immediately and go at it like bunnies. We get them falling in love in different time periods, in different jobs, in different universes.”
> 
> And by the role that Isabel (Joy) Bear played in the joint discovery of petrichor, but one achievement in a truly remarkable and inspiring scientific career spanning more than 70 years and culminated in 1986, with Joy’s appointment as a Member of the Order of Australia for services to science.
> 
> This is a tiny little fic; the first thing that I ever wrote, and I owe everything to the wonderfully supportive @FreeThemFrom1895, @88thParallel, @coopsbird, @fellshish, @holmezyan, @mandapanda8, @asleepatlast and @steadymentalityengineer.

“Petrichor, John.” His words broke through my thoughts.

“Yes. Right, wait what?” I watched him crouched over in the dry river bed rolling the dry red soil between two elegantly long fingers.

“Petrichor,” he repeated, looking thoughtfully at the soil and bringing his fingers up to his nose to inhale the smell. “It’s the name of the oil trapped in the soil that’s released when humidify fills the pores with tiny amounts of water.” He proffered his fingers to me. “It’s only a minuscule amount,” he remarked, tilting his head to the left, “but it’s enough to flush the oil from the soil and release it into the air.”

I reached forward to touch the soil still clinging to his fingers and transferred some of it to my own. The pads of our fingers brushed gently against each other. “Petra?” I considered, rolling the dirt between my fingers, “from the Greek meaning stone?”

“Indeed,” he gestured to the river bed floor,” and ichor which the Greek’s considered to be the ethereal blood of the gods.”

Blood seemed fitting I thought as my gaze was draw once more to the landscape beyond us, beyond the river bed, past the walls of the canyon and out into the endless desert of blood red soil that seemed to stretch forever. A few shrubs, a few trees, but little else to mark the distance between us and the horizon. This was indeed a strange place. A place where in all rights, nothing should grow, but still life persisted. Not a lot, but enough to prove that it wasn’t done yet, that it wasn’t over. It should have been stranger, I should have felt more unsettled, coming this far across the world to a land where the temperature surpassed 40 degrees Celsius every single bloody day and every living creature seemed intent on causing the person unfortunate enough to cross their path, a painfully agonising death (and that wasn’t even taking into consideration whatever was responsible for the grizzly human remains turning up every few months on this remote outback Queensland cattle station, 300 kilometers from the closest resemblance of civilisation).

But as I brushed the dirt of my fingers and onto my pants, stuffing my hand back in my pocket, I grudgingly admitted that what was bothering me was that I really didn’t feel and different at all. My life had settled into a well-worn pattern of habit and predictability, cases and blogging, and that despite any hopes I might have had for things to be different, my life was destined to continue to be defined only by a working relationship with my extraordinary friend. When had I finally given up wishing for more I wondered?

Sherlock had continued to talk to himself, and the soil, while I had been caught up in my own resigned musings, but I pulled my gaze away from the horizon now and brought my attention back to him. I took in his hunched frame, sweeping over the long, lean lines of his legs encased in uncharacteristic casual pants tucked into immensely practical (criminally unfashionable, he had bitterly complained) boots. His shirt remained the same though, a little less silk, a whole lot more cotton, but tight and white, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned at the top. Look at us I thought. A strange pair.

“There is some evidence that drought-stricken cattle respond in a restless matter to this smell of rain,” a nod of his head indicating towards the herd of eternally angry looking half angus, half longhorn cattle in the shade of one of the few trees in the landscape (yes, see Sherlock, I had been paying attention (somewhat) to your seemingly never ending diatribe the previous night on the evolutionary history of cattle and the phylogenetic (seriously what the fuck?) relationship of various breeds). And just like that, as if they had received instruction from him directly, the herd began to shift, just slightly together, but at different angles, with misaligned feet, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

Christ, he’s a bloody cow whisperer now I thought.

“Maybe we should make our way out of here Sherlock”? My eyes narrowed on the shifting herd, a number of them eyeing me suspiciously, seemingly daring me to move in a manner they found even slightly unwelcome so that they could demonstrate my my complete inferiority in their upward of 1500 pound presence. “Sherlock,” I asked again, tilting my head back towards him but still keeping an eye on the untrusting, untrustworthy beasts.

“Relax John,” he dismissed, not looking towards me or them, still examining the soil intently, “they’re not interested in you.”

Just like everything else around here, I thought, muttering the same under my breath.

He turned slowly on his right heel to face me for a moment, still crouching, his eyes sharpening on mine and eyebrows coming together as he took in my face, my stance, my demeanor. I shoved my hands further in my pockets and suddenly felt even more uncomfortable in the layer of constant dust and sweat which had settled around me ever since we had arrived here two weeks ago. A shower, I thought, as I rubbed my hand across my jaw, a shower and a cold beer would be nice. His eyes softened and he turned to face away from me again, this time his gaze returning not to the soil below him, but to the increasingly agitated herd in front.

“Things don’t change without a catalyst John”. He stood quicker than I was expecting and turned to face me, less than a couple of feet apart. My chest tightened as I took in his words. “Take the soil,” he gestured more softly around us, not taking his eyes off me, “the oil can’t be released without the moisture and it’s the rain that’s needed to spread the scent into the wind. Things need a catalyst”.

He stood. I stood. And I felt that in that moment, the humidity surrounding us, building. Neither of us moved a muscle. But his gaze was open and so was mine as we silently asked the questions and searched for the answers in each others eyes. My attention flickered as a drop of rain, the first drop of rain, fell from the sky and on to his face. Before I knew what I was doing I had lessened the gap between us and had reached out with my right hand to trace my thumb down the path the rain drop had made through the dust on his cheek. It felt like neither of us were breathing.

As a rain drop followed the first, and another, and then another, I moved to completely close the gap between us and mirrored the position of my right hand by placing my left hand on the other side of his face and leaning in to place a kiss on the spot where the first raindrop fell. His eyelashes fluttered closed as my lips touched his skin. Mine closed as well as the warmth of his skin heated my lips. A gentle, reverent kiss. And we just breathed, together, the humid air filling our lungs. And as the raindrops became more frequent and began to slick hair our hair, his hand went to the back of my head and drew my mouth to his and kissed me hungrily, messily. Startled by the ferocity of his kiss, my brain and lips declined to respond for a few seconds as stood, dumbstruck at the sight of the gorgeous, drenched, passionate man before me, kissing me as the rain poured down around us. Bugger this, I thought and began to kiss him back with a lifetime of wanting and longing. Hard, fast, passionate, possessive. He held my head as if he couldn't bear to let go and I moved my hands to his hips and clung on.

“It’s getting dangerous,” he observed thoughtfully, easing his lips and his body back from mine.

“Hmm,” I moaned, frustrated by the loss of warmth and the sudden rush of air filling the gap between us. I reached out to pull his hips back towards mine in a clumsy attempt to re-establish our physical connection.

“No John,” he stated more clearly and forcefully, taking hold of my shoulders and encouraging me to really look at him. “Continuing to stand in a river bed that hasn’t seen water in months in a rainstorm presents a very physical risk that we will be swept away by a flash flood”.

“Oh, right,” I panted, trying to catch my breath as the thought of imminent death served to cool my ardour somewhat.

After a few seconds he asked, ”got your breath back?”, his smile quirked at the edges as one spread across my face.

We turned and ran, towards the western canyon wall, scrabbling at sides and the loose footing as the streams running down the side slickened our path. I glanced over my shoulder, noting the herd picking their path, already halfway up the eastern wall. No doubt their head start was aided by not being distracted by having each others tongues down their throats, I thought wryly as my foot slipped again and I reached out desperately to clutch at something, anything to prevent sliding backwards. Suddenly Sherlock’s hand was there, at my wrist, gripping tight and hauling me up. “It's just because you've got legs like an antelope I grumbled,” put out that he was finding his way up far easier than me.

He grinned back at me and my annoyance faded as I continued to scramble up the slope, finally hauling myself up over the side and flopping down next to him. We took up position, side by side, thigh against thigh, at the edge of the canyon wall, feet dangling in over the edge into the space below, watching the torrent of water make its way through the canyon effortlessly relocating anything and everything in its path as we struggled to catch our breath.

On the other side of the canyon, the herd of (still) angry but now equally bedraggled looking cattle rested together, surveying the same scene before out before them. After a while one of them looked our way and swear the look the unforgiving bastard gave me was something about me staying over here where I belonged. I glanced at Sherlock who was staring back at the bull, his nose wrinkling the way it always did when he was trying not to show his amusement. My glare softened as I took in his profile, and took his hand in mine. Yes, right where I belong.


End file.
